Monday

There was a human interest story on the news yesterday about a woman who, when she needed extra income, went to a flea market with a box of buttons and some jewelry making stuff, and sold rings she made on the spot for $3. She did so well that it launched a business, and now she sells to stores around the country.

Good for her.

But...it was a head scratcher for me. Who would want a ring made from a button? Obviously a lot of people do, but...

Maybe it's just one of my weird quirks.

I loath buttons.

Granted, I own clothing that has buttons, but I try to not think about them. I hate clothing with decorative buttons, crafts made with buttons grosses me out, and I have a visceral reaction to anything with unnecessary buttons.

I even hate the word.

Buttons.

Ugh.

Oh, and I know you people. Now you're thinking "Let's send Thumper crap with buttons!"

Sunday

Friday was the start of the 2012 Susan G. Komen 3 Day; the first walk--which ended today--took place in Boston. I've been waiting for this walk, mostly out of curiosity, wanting to see how the numbers stacked up.

Komen does a lot of good, regardless of the politics it (probably should not) dabbles in. It does a lot of good in spite of the bloat at the top of the Komen food chain. But the missteps...there are a whole lot of people out there, on both sides, who won't forgive Komen for the whole thing, and they're taking their money elsewhere.

I'm not walking a Komen event this year, mostly because I know the fundraising just won't happen. I am crewing in San Francisco, driving a sweep van along with DKM, but I'm doing it mostly for the walkers, in support of their efforts. My issues with Komen are mine, but I have no issues with the people who are going to be out there for 3 days, putting one sore foot in front of the other.

I won't have a problem donating to friends who are walking a Komen event this year; the royalties for Rock the Pink are starting to come in, and I fully intend to donate them to friends who are walking, whether they're walking in a Komen or an Avon walk. In this, my support is for my friends, and these walks matter to them.

But I also understand why people don't want to give Komen another dime...and I really wonder if Boston is the start of a huge drop in donations because of their political dustup. And I'm not sure how I feel about that. Part of me thinks it's their own damn fault for not handling the whole thing better and they're lucky to still have the support they do. Part of me hopes people will get past it and look to the people those funds help.

But, yeah. A whopping $1.6 million difference from last year to this year.

Monday

A day or two ago while browsing reddit/r/motorcycles, I clicked a link and it went to this image. Hundreds of other people did the same, and I think it's safe to say a lot of them had the same first thought that I did.

Moron...that's a good way to get yourself killed.

There's so much wrong with this: let's forget about the lack of gear, the riding position alone does not afford a rider any reaction time if something goes wrong. One hand on the bar, feet no where near the pegs...one tiny thing goes wrong, that's a rider who's going to have a bad day.

I shrugged it off and was going to scroll down to other links, but then I clicked on the comments.

I don't know when the picture was taken; someone commenting mentioned that it was an old repost, so it may have been taken a month ago or a year ago. But in June of this year, she died on a ride; somehow—I'm not suggesting at all that she was riding in that same position—she lost control of her bike, crashed into a wall, went over it, and fell 20 feet down.

I feel bad for her. I feel bad for her family. I feel bad for my initial thought of “Moron.”

Not that I condone the way she was riding in the picture someone took while passing her on the road; I don't. But it was her choice, and I'm betting she understood the risks she was taking.

I will never ride without a helmet; I'll never ride without a full faced helmet. That's my choice. I support someone else's right to ride with a half helmet, a shortie, or no helmet at all. You get on a bike, you know the risks. You make your choices and accept the risk that comes along with it. You know that the half helmet leaves a good part of your face exposed and it might very well get ripped off if you hit pavement; it's your risk to take.

I usually ride in full gear: boots, kevlar lined pants, armored jacket, m/c specific gloves, and helmet. But once in a while, if we're heading just down the road, I'll ride in regular jeans. I might not put the jacket on. I accept the risk. Hitting the ground at 30 mph is going to hurt, but I accept that. If I'm heading out of Dixon, I gear up. I don't want to hit the ground at 45 and up without gear.

My choice.

My knee jerk reaction to the picture, though, I don't think it was fair. Riding like that, it was her choice. She undoubtedly knew the risks and accepted them.

Sometimes we make the wrong choices. And when we do, we leave behind people who bear the worst of that. But still...those are our choices to make, and for someone else to grunt “Moron...”

Wednesday

The Spouse Thingy dragged me out of the house yesterday for a quick trip to Walmart; I only walked around for about 5 minutes, but it wiped me out. Later, he took me out for frozen yogurt, and I didn't die.

Today he dragged me out to walk around Walmart; I made it around all the way before punking out. That's progress.

Later he took me out to Denny's, a test of endurance and appetite. Two scrambled eggs and some grits, which is a big meal of late.

Bonus: I wanted something else, so we went to BK for pie.

I am still so freaking tired, but I can feel it getting better in increments, and my appetite is fully engaged now. Everything still has a bad aftertaste because of the Thrush, but it is improving, just not as fast as I'd like.

If I could get all my energy and digestive qualities back, I'd be a very happy Thumper.

Monday

On a scale of 1-100, I think I'm at
about 60. Much better, but not better enough, not enough to make me
happy.

In the last two weeks, I've only been out of
the house twice, both for doctor appointments; the first time was
horrible, the second time was tolerable, both times left me wiped
out. Still, since that second appointment, I've gotten exponentially
better, so I can't complain too much.

Right now, what I mostly feeling is
fatigue. No surprise there; when I'm sick, I sleep, and the last
couple of days I've intentionally made myself stay put of bed and
awake, because that stuff just feeds on itself. If you don't stay out
of bed, you just don't get out of bed, if that makes sense. It would
be easy to lie there and watch TV, snooze, watch more TV. It just
feels a little better to get up, sit in the recliner, and watch TV.
Marginally more proactive.

I'm down 23 pounds in 14 days; I
absolutely do not recommend this as a way to lose weight. Still, I'll
take it as a consolation prize, especially since I'd gained back
everything I lost a couple years ago. I just hope I can maintain it.

I have an appetite again, but most food
tastes like utter crap thanks to the nice case of Thrush the
antibiotics gave me. I'm done with those, though, and I think the
mouth wash-spit swallow meds are starting to work on that, so I have
high hopes that everything will taste normally in another day or two.

Then all I want is for my digestion to
get back to normal. 'Cause...yeah, well...let's just say I may never
look at pudding the same way.

As long as this doesn't flare up, I
should be good to go for the Komen 3 Day in September, where the kind
people in charge are actually going to let me drive a van along with
DKM, and I swear I will refrain from running anyone over. And then
two days after that...

A colonoscopy.

I could have had it done a couple of
weeks before the 3 Day, but just in case it triggers this krap again,
I wanted to push it back to after, because I really don't want to
miss another walk event, and being in the sweep van is supposed to be
one of The Most Awesome Crew Jobs EVER.

Thursday

Things have not been peachy keen at
Casa de Thumper. I mean, it was fine on June 2nd at about
6:30, and then not so fine at about 6:35, and super not fine at 10:30
when the Spouse Thingy determined that like it or not, I was going to
the ER.

On the afternoon of the 2nd
I was beginning to get ready for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer; I
dyed my blue camo shorts fuschia and they came quite pretty freaking
sweet, and I planned on dyeing my hair white-blonde on Tuesday and
then hot pink on Wednesday. After the shorts were dyed and dried and
folded, we had dinner, I played online for a while...

...and this is where the TMI flows, so
you might want to hop on over to reddit'saww subreddit and look at pictures of cute things.

Go ahead. It's ok. You can be pretty
sure that in the end, I survive.

Alrighty. I played online for a while,
and then had to use the facilities, so to speak. Quite badly.
Seemingly urgently. I grabbed my iPhone—to play Solitaire, because
who the hell can go to the bathroom without a phone now?—and went
into the restroom, where nothing happy happened. Right about the time
I was about to grumble about the false alarm, though...the ringing in
my ears jacked up, the world felt like it was closing in on me, and I
got serious tunnel vision. Within seconds, I was starting to sweat,
was pretty sure I was going to pass out, and had the fleeting thought
that at least I wasn't sitting there with a pork chop to choke on.

Just in front of the toilet is a wicker
hamper; I grabbed it and pulled it toward me, and set my head on it,
hoping everything would pass and I would just be grumbling later
about nothing.

Several minutes later, nothing had
passed. I still had that gripping oh-hell-gotta-go-NOW feeling in my
gut, I was soaked in sweat, and still felt like I was going to pass
out. I have no idea how, but I dragged myself to the bedroom and onto
the bed and kicked at the wall, hoping the Spouse Thingy would hear
me in the other room where he was playing some computer game.

We waited for it to pass; after ten
minutes it was no better but I had to bolt back to the bathroom,
where eruptions of Oh Hell No occurred.

Max decided to take over.

I agonized with sitting there, hugging
the hamper while drenching it with my sweat. Max hovered, walking a
line outside the (open) bathroom door, growling at the Spouse Thingy
if he even looked like he might intrude. In between growlings, he
came in to see me, standing on his back legs, stretching up to look
at me, then headed back to the hall to growl more.

Leave her alone.

His intentions were good.

I sweated through my clothing, leaving
wet foot prints on the floor. But this was good, I would be done, I
would feel better.

But I didn't. I spent the next three
hours darting between the bed and the bathroom, with Mike hovering,
trying to figure out when I had crossed a line. I kept my phone with
me, just in case, and at 10:30 I sent him one text:

Bleeding.

I'd crossed the line; he bolted into
the bathroom, looked at the evidence—it was only blood—and
announced we were heading for the ER.

I did not argue.

On the plus side, I was no longer
covered in a cold sweat and didn't feel like I was about to faceplant
onto the floor. I only felt like I belonged in an Aliens supporting role.

When you feel like complete crap, a
fifteen minute car ride feels like it takes an hour. A five minute
wait for vitals feels like ten, and a ten minute wait in a quite room
while they discharge someone else so you can have their bed just
feels like oh-gawd-let-me-lie-down-already...that's all I wanted at
the point, to curl up in a bed and do as much nothing as possible.

Within half an hour of getting the open
bed I had an IV in place and enough pain relief on board that I was
almost comfortable. Lots of waiting, a digital exam, a CT scan of my abdomen, and a
few hours, and I was discharged with a diagnosis of Colitis, and had
scrips for 2 different antibiotics, a heavy duty pain killer, and
anti-nausea med.

But hey, I was going to go home and
sleep in my own bed, and in the morning the Spouse Thingy would get
my meds and I'd feel spiffy by afternoon. Right?

On the ride home, the nausea ramped up.

I barfed just outside the front door, twice.
He got me into bed, got most of my clothes off, and got me a bucket,
which he set by the bed but not in my path...by 6:30 in the morning,
I was heaving into it.

At 8:30 Buddah decided to check it out
and knocked it over.

At 8:31 I decided I needed to chew
better, threw a towel over the mess, dashed for the bathroom again, and
then crawled back into bed where I pleaded with Someone to make the
cramping and pain stop. At some point there was Percoset and
something for the nausea...and sleep.

Lots of sleep.

I know I got out of bed on Tuesday long
enough to post something on Facebook, but for the most part the next
week was spent in bed, curled up in a tight ball of
please-let-the-pain-stop, unless I was aseleep...and I was asleep a
lot. Between my natural inclination to sleep when I'm sick and the
Percoset, I'm not sure I got out of bed other than to go to the
bathroom, which was just an ongoing issue of Blah.

For the most part, Tuesday afternoon
through Monday of this week are one mushed together lump of sleep and
pain; there's photographic proof that I got up at one point and went
into the living room, where I feel asleep on the couch, but other
than that it was sleep, drink, meds, crawl to the bathroom, sleep
more, refuse food, sleep...

And I missed the Avon Walk because of
it all.

That's what chaps me the most; I'd been
looking forward to the walk and hanging around in SF with DKM for
weeks. Instead of camping, we were going to stay in a hotel, and we
were going to the Cheesecake Factory, dammit!

But, while DKM walked, I slept. And
whined about the crappy taste in my mouth and how uncomfortable I
was, and kept refusing food that the Spouse Thingy (who had to take
off work to care for me) was more than willing to make for me.

Every day he struggled to get me to eat
something. Half a slice of toast was a victory. Half a cup of rice
was amazing. I needed ice water, he got me ice water. I needed
Gatorade, he got me Gatorade. I wasn't sure what I wanted, he went to
Walmart and brought half the store home with him, creating a pyramid
of junk food on the kitchen counter to tempt me.

Nothing sounded good, or even like
eating it was remotely a good idea.

By the weekend, I had lost about 15
pounds. I highly do not recommend this method.

I think this Tuesday was when there was
actual food I craved. Macaroni and Cheese. He made some, I ate about
6 ounces. Later, cream of potato soup with white rice in it. I ate
about 7 ounces. Yesterday, blueberry muffins. Yogurt. Somewhere in
there was a chicken wing I inhaled.

Today has been the first day of regular
food—10 days after it all started. I saw my doctor last week—he
renewed my pain meds and don't-barf meds—and had me come back
today. Since I'm improving (in spite of the wonderful case of Thrush
the antibiotics have given me) I can just continue on and don't have
to go back unless I get worse, but the big thing is we still don't
know what caused this or why...so I'm getting a colonoscopy in
September (right AFTER the Komen walk...like, 2 DAYS after) and I
just have to keep my fingers crossed it's not chronic and I
eventually (sooner rather than later, please) am not glued to the
bathroom.

I definitely feel better; there's no
crushing pain in my belly right now, and I can sit upright for a
couple hours, but I'm still exhausted and sleeping more hours than
not. I've had most excellent care here, and we all need to keep our
fingers crossed that Mike never gets this sick so that he doesn't
have to see which end of the stick he got in this relationship.

Though I suppose I wouldn't flinch too
hard at him holding up toilet paper to me and showing the result...

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Doctor Who Quotes

There's something that doesn't make sense. Let's go and poke it with a stick.

We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh?

Every time you see them happy, you remember how sad they're going to be. And it breaks your heart. Because what's the point in them being happy now if they're going to be sad later? And the answer is, of course, because they're going to be sad later.

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.

Do you know, in nine hundred years of time and space I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important before.

If it’s time to go, remember what you’re leaving. Remember the best. My friends have always been the best of me.